


Running on Empty

by theinvalidedsoldier



Series: Goner [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Disorders, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter is 21, Protective Wade Wilson, Spideypool if you squint, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvalidedsoldier/pseuds/theinvalidedsoldier
Summary: "You're running on empty, baby boy. You can't live like this." They made eye contact, the most severe eye contact that would send the most sane individuals crippling to their knees at the intense stare of a masked Deadpool, "I won't let you."





	Running on Empty

**Author's Note:**

> TW // It is important to take this trigger warning seriously, as the story contains very graphic depictions of anorexia and some mentions of body dysmorphic disorder.
> 
> I think by now most of you should see a recurring theme in my fics, they're all angsty as fuck, and usually have one or other of the main protagonists with an issue. What can I say?
> 
> Enjoy!

  It was supposedly always safe to presume that Peter, more commonly known as Spider-Man to those close to him, was a healthy and rational boy-  _man._ The sheer idea that the superhero was anything but that was laughable.

  Renowned by his teachers and his current college professors for being nothing but competent, and overwhelmingly expressive in his studies and consistent in excellent work, with seemingly no deviation from a reputation he seemed to carry everywhere. Dutiful and enthusiastic. After all, he was the protector of New York City, Tony Stark be damned. So, surely he wouldn't jeopardise his health at the expense of the suffering of an everyday civilian living in a crime cesspool, right?

  That's what most people seemed to assume nonetheless, which made Peter's rather constant struggle with mental illness a battle done in soul-destroying silence. Surely Spider-Man wouldn't be that selfish? So inconsistent with his righteous morality that if he dropped dead from his self-inflicted disorder the people of New York would suffer for his perish. It was quite a dilemma. And it was a constant terror living with the knowledge - or thoughts, rather - that he would never been good enough, never truly worthy enough to brandish the label of a hero, someone to be admired. Little did the young boys and girls throughout the world know, the young children that idolised Spidey and wished to be like him, Spider-Man was starving. Starving himself.

  He desperately wished that he wasn't burdened with such a fucked up mind that he would sink to such a low, it was humiliating. It was surprisingly easy to hide, with college being a constant source of stress and hardship, Peter found that with that alone he shed the pounds at a scary velocity. He no longer lived with Aunt May, much to both of their wishes, but Peter wanted to have some source of independence in his life. Look where that had gotten him. He supposed that choosing not to put food into his body was a very twisted sense of independence in its own right, but trying to stop this far in was futile. 

  The first time Peter discovered the paradoxical feeling of raw starvation was when he was going on a bender for a huge science project in his senior year of High School, his substitute teacher was absolutely brutal, and didn't seem to even entertain the idea that Peter's exhaustion could possibly effect the quality of his work.

  Though he had been the only one in his year to receive an A from the teacher, the lengths that he had put himself through to achieve it definitely tarnished the smug feeling of outdoing his peers, which was a rarity.

  Though Peter definitely wasn't the type of petty person to focus on something as trivial as grades, it was only mainly to spite Flash, who had been truly outdoing himself when it came to licking the teachers ass to get a good grade, he got a C minus. He had stayed up for at least four days straight, functioning only for the amount of red bull and black coffee flowing through his system, his appetite subsequently diminishing from this. May had obviously badgered him about taking care himself more times than he could count, but he would simply wave her off and tell her that he had eaten at school, which was obviously a lie.

  It was only at the weekend, after the week of absolute hell, that Peter realised that two apples and a few bites of a protein bar wasn't exactly enough to sustain a healthy diet. He was positively crippled with the rolls of agony wreaking havoc throughout his body, he could almost feel his stomach getting smaller.

  It was only when he practically inhaled a box of cereal, along with three sandwiches and half an apple pie that Peter realised with an immense feeling of shame that the feeling of emptiness was one that he missed. The rolls of agony that rippled through him this time were not those of the pain of an unaccustomed empty stomach, but rolls of revulsion at the amount of food he had consumed in such a short period of time. He wasn't even nearly full, which was nearly as disgusting as the feeling of the food weighing his stomach down. He had eaten too much, he shouldn't have done it, but his body's natural instinct to nourish itself was almost as strong as his convoluted brains attempt to put him off touching another morsel for the rest of the foreseeable future.

  That was when it started, and since that point, he had steadily been getting worse. The weight loss had not gone unnoticed by those around him, some complimented him, saying that he looked “fit” or “well”, when he was anything but that. On the contrary, his arms and legs were starting to grow lanugo in tufts to keep him warm, and his skin was starting to take on a grey tint that could only be covered up with concealer. It was anything but glamorous. He was always cold, always volatile, and always,  _always_ thinking about food. It was the one constancy in his violently spiralling life that he could count on. Hunger. 

  His body dysmorphia had been a source of constant torture over the following years, feeling sick when he looked in the mirror, to physically getting sick after eating too much food. He couldn't take photos of himself anymore, though not many occasions called for it, it was still a hardship that thankfully everyone looked past. He started to mediate his food intake as a punishment. A slip up at work? No dinner. Missed the deadline for an assignment? No breakfast for two weeks. Coffee curbed his appetite, and the only slight bit of nutrition he would get would be the milk that he would put into each cup.

  He had told Aunt May that it was a mix of anaemia and tiredness, which she didn't look like she believed in the slightest. If she doubted the legitimacy of the excuse then she most certainly didn't say anything, as she knew how defensive Peter could get when confronted about the more personal aspects of his life. Tony Stark was much harder to mollify, he had offered everything to help Peter. He had offered to get him a year long leave from University, or even a new apartment with central heating, as he noticed the shivers that would occasionally wrack his body out of nowhere. It was quite sweet, actually, but he would obviously never actually take him up on any of the offers. He knew that Tony had more money in the world to spare, and that it would barely make a dent in his daily earnings if he were to buy Peter a mansion, nonetheless, he didn't accept pity. Never pity. Another thing that was a certainty was; if Tony were to buy him a new apartment, a certain red and black donning merc would most certainly notice.

  Wade, out of everyone in Peter's life, was the one person that he found it extraordinarily hard to lie to, as Wade surpassed even Tony's level of observation and suspicion. It was a wonder that he hadn't noticed, and he would have, if it weren't for Peter's exhausting vigilance in doing everything in his power to hide his affliction. Padding in his suit, check. Internalised suit heater, check. Every cautionary step was taken, as the most terrifying idea in the world to Peter was Wade finding out.

  Wade was the exact polar opposite to Peter in that respect - in  _every_ respect, actually - as he always seemed to be hungry. It was a scientific abomination how many tacos he could consume on a semi-hourly basis, and Peter didn't know how he didn't just exude guacamole from his pores.

  Refusing to have tacos when in the presence of Wade was the equivalent of decapitating a puppy in his eyes. Whenever he denied being hungry after a three hour stakeout, Wade was narrowing his eyes behind his all too expressive mask alongside a curious tilt of his head, he was seldom serious, but if you wanted to get Wade to become stoically unenthusiastic, mention Peter's eating habits. As someone who had the reputation of being a cold-blooded killer with tendencies of your everyday horror movie psychopath, Deadpool was most definitely the most nosy and protective friend Peter had ever had. Which is precisely why he could  _never_ find out. 

- 

  Why did everyone in New York want to be a villain? It was ridiculous at this point, how many wannabe supervillains with dodgy killer costumes made from rusted steel and a car battery would just linger around the back alleys of slums until jumping out into the main streets when seeing that Deadpool and Spider-Man were walking around. It was nonsensical, and completely illogical. What in the sweet fuck did they expect to happen? That they would win? Against New York's sworn protector and his mouthy sidekick, known by all for his brutality? Really? Were the criminal class  _trying_ to wind him up? Honestly. 

  Peter couldn't remember who the prematurely balding middle-aged man was, or what exactly his completely authentic villain name was, but it evidently wasn't worthy enough for him to remember. Nonetheless, this criminal had marginally more impressive equipment than most, but it was nothing to get scared about.

  The fight, if it even qualified as such, only lasted for roughly three hundred seconds at the most. Which was still an impressive feat in itself. The creaking clumps of deformed metal brandished large bowie knives with jagged edges, no doubt crafted by him considering their humongous size. The metallic arms were all swinging rapidly in different directions as Peter was forced to hop back and forth every five seconds to avoid the loss of a vitally important limb. You know, an average Tuesday evening. Deadpool was giving the man the benefit of the doubt, upon Peter's request not to maim him, and was attempting to talk him down.

  "Trust me when I say this isn't a fight you want to have, you deformed Wolverine motherfucker." He too was jumping between metallic arms, there were four of them, moving upon rapid dictation of the cackling dickhead in the middle of the street. Cars had well cleared off at this point, and all pedestrians had positively fled the scene upon seeing the arrival of the now infamous duo.

  "Always the two-dimensional villains, always," Wade started to mumble, "What's your motive, I wonder? Probably fucking bland as unseasoned chicken, world domination or some shit." An arm started to swing towards Deadpool's face, Peter panicked in his scuffle.

  "Move, Wade!" In the distraction of shouting at his unsurprisingly distracted friend, Peter didn't see the third arm slashing towards him at a mind-boggling speed. He dashed to the side within the nick of time, just narrowly avoiding being sliced down the middle. He didn't escape a gash though, unfortunately, a gash that cut down the the side of his suit, through the padding and through his skin. It could've been infinitely worse, but as he let out a yell of pain, that was the last thing on his mind. Peter fell to the ground, blood starting to soak the surrounding area, the slash throbbing violently. The robotic creature started to advance on Spider-Man, the arms being used as leverage. That was a cringe-worthy mistake on his part, as Deadpool was left forgotten behind him, seething.

  "Ohohoho, big mistake, buddy." Was heard behind the man, his reflexes clearly not being up to par as Deadpool was using his full body weight to tackle both the man and his suit down to the ground in a deafening crash. To put it bluntly, Wade was a heavy guy, all muscle of course, but a beast of a man when provoked enough. That combined with the rage of the cackling merc, a terrifying laugh, had the creaking metal arms snapping immediately on impact with the ground. Wade was completely unscathed when the dust cleared, and he emerged from the cloud of smoke towards Spider-Man with his arms outstretched, his mask clenched into a look of contorted worry.

  "Baby boy, are you hurt? You good?" Wade reached Peter, who was trying to push himself up by his elbows from his position on the cement. "Oh shitfuck Spidey, that doesn't look great. Can you stand?" Peter laughed, immediately wincing at the pressure that put on his wound, his head was starting to feel light. Lighter than usual. Blood loss and starvation didn't pair well together, unsurprisingly. Peter waved away Wade's helping hand dismissively. Peter's only worry was his suit, as blood was a bitch to remove and no padding definitely didn't help his case at all. 

  "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just need to get home," Peter said, gesturing down towards his suit. "I'll be fine, but I need to change out of this suit. I think I'm done for today." Usually Peter would've casually thrown out the invite for Wade to come over to his apartment, as Wade had come over many times before. The first time had been unsolicited, he had been  _'innocently'_ stalking Peter until he got to his house, thankfully he hadn't taken off his mask yet. That would've been a whole other story.

  Since then, Wade would occasionally - regularly - show up at his window and plop down onto his couch, Peter always got a pre-meditated text as a five minute warning, so he could throw on his mask in a hurry. This was one of the rare occasions that he most certainly did not want Deadpool coming over to his apartment, he didn't have another suit with protective padding. Wade would notice his drastic weight loss in a millisecond if he saw Peter's body without the façade of his insulated, beefy suit, which was not going to happen if Peter could control it. 

  Wade was nodding in agreement and was preparing to head home alongside the bleeding arachnid without so much as a questioning falter in his step. Peter held up his hand, fumbling for an excuse like his life depended on it. And if Wade found out what he was doing to himself, his life would depend on it. He'd go absolutely ballistic. His eyes - his lenses -  narrowed as Peter started to stutter, "No, no that's alright DP- that's okay. I have a med kit at home, you don't need-"

  Wade cut him short, "I'm coming with you, you're gonna faint from that blood loss, Spidey. Now, come on." His tone was unwaveringly stern, leaving absolutely no room for disagreement. Peter had no choice but to sigh, and move along. On the outside, he looked like your regular companion of Deadpool, agitated but collected. On the inside however, he was going into panic mode, his mind not being able to comprehend that Wade was inevitably going to find out. ' _He's going to find out, and he's going to hate you. You'll disgust him.'_

There was the typical small talk on the way back, but lacking its usual banter. Wade was mumbling incoherent sentences with a few decipherable words here and there, with only a few hums of acknowledgement on Peter's part. Every part of him was thrumming in pure and unprecedented fear, his hands shaking with no deterioration, though he was swinging from building to building. What would he say? What would he do? He couldn't even comprehend the idea of treating the gash in his side with his shaky hands, the area it was in would've made it difficult enough as it was. Oh God. They were at Peter's apartment. 

  To avoid the exposure of literally going through the front door, though the doorman wouldn't have noticed, they both slipped through Peter's window discreetly. Throughout the entire duration of the harrowing journey, Wade was looking at Peter's side, the blood left much up to imagination but his eyes were always on it. His hands didn't touch Peter once, as that would've been a dead giveaway in itself, but they were lingering just above his own waist ready to grab Peter at a moments notice.

  "Okay, strip that off Spidey-" His tone wavered away from serious almost instantaneously as a grin could be seen widening from behind his mask. Wade started to chuckle, though the situation was far from funny to Peter. "Well shit, out of all of the situations I've dreamt of saying that in, this is not the one I had hoped for." Eyebrows wiggled up and down in a comic fashion but the joke fell flat, he made to move towards Peter, Peter flinched back.  _Shit, shit, shit, no. Oh no._ "DP, I can do it myself in the bathroom, I'll be only a minute-" Deadpool was deathly serious within a second once again.

  This was not happening, this could not be happening. This was a game changer, when Wade knew, everyone would know. He would make a bigger deal out of this than when he thought he had lost his boxset of 'Sex and the City', and that was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying all at once. This was completely different, this was serious, he knew it was. Wade wasn't exactly the most sane person that Peter had come across, actually, he was batshit crazy. But he could act perfectly sane in the moments when it mattered, which was enough to make Peter feel bad for his insecurities. He knew that Wade had put a bullet in his own head many a times when he was bored, or when everything became too much, it was the butt of many of his jokes. Peter had never found any of them to be funny, they made him quite sad. He said that to Wade all too often.

  "No, there's no way you can do it yourself, you can barely even see it," His voice, his inside voice, was a rumble that demanded obedience. "Get me your medical kit." He crossed his arms across his broad chest, it was clear from his stance and the tilt of his head that his eyebrow were raised and his mouth was pressed into a disapproving grimace. When Deadpool disapproved of something you’ve done, you know it's definitely bad.

  They stared at each other, so quiet in the room you could hear a pin drop. Getting Wade to shut up for longer than five seconds was incredibly impressive, as his thoughts were always vocalised to an irritatingly relentless extent. Though relishing in the glory of actually shutting him up was not something Peter prioritised at that very moment. Peter could feel that he was still bleeding, the gash having opened acutely on the journey up the wall of the apartment block. He was stark still, willing Wade to just laugh and say that he was kidding, waiting to see if he would jump onto the sofa and tell Peter to hurry up in the bathroom as he wanted to watch Star Wars for the umpteenth time. That didn't happen, he could feel the white lenses burning holes into his suit, as if he didn't feel exposed enough as it was. 

   "Kit. Now." Through the years of dancing around confrontations just to avoid situations like these, it had all finally caught up to Peter. It was only karma, he supposed, someone was going to find out eventually. It was just infinitely inconvenient that it evidently had to be Wade. It wasn't that Peter didn't trust him, he did. With his life, actually. But that was precisely what he was worried about. 

  With limbs that felt like lead, that Peter didn't remember giving permission to move, he moved out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where is hands found the emergency medical kit that he kept in the cabinet above the sink. It was as if he was walking through thick mud, or walking in the depths of the ocean, mind swimming with his heavy feet practically melded to the sea floor. In a last attempt at resistance, he shut the bathroom door in a hurry and locked it with hands that were shaking so much, it was a wonder that his fingers weren't a blur. His lenses started to dampen as tears welled up in his eyes, he could faintly hear the sound of a fist slamming against the door. "Open the door, Spidey. I'm not fucking around, open the door." The kit nearly fell out of his grip with fear,  _'He'll run for the hills if he finds out. Nobody wants to deal with this shit.'_

  He desperately started to grapple underneath the padding, trying to evaluate how bad it would look to Wade. Sheer shame flared throughout his body when he immediately felt his ribs, as prominent as they had ever been, nimble fingers running across the bumps far, far too easily. His padding did a worryingly good job at hiding his stomach, which had sunken in completely, in a horrific manner. His hipbones were unforgivingly sharp, and his minuscule thighs left little to imagination when comparing it to the proportions of the rest of his body.

  His Spidey Sense barely had time to tingle before the door was open, and he was making eye contact with Deadpool's mask in the mirror. Evidently lock picking was a skill Wade possessed that he oh so conveniently neglected to tell him about. Peter was exhausted, truly exhausted. He shouldn't have been making as big of a deal of the situation as he was, it was as dramatic as any shitty Lifetime movie, that was for sure. He sighed resignedly, "I told you I was going to do it myself," His voice was tiny, it betrayed every emotion he had hoped to repress from those that snooped far into his personal life. The cat was pretty much out of the bag at that point. 

  "And I told you no, give it here." His hand extended outwards, palm outstretched for the medical kit. Peter placed it in his hand, and Wade's hand circled all too easily around his wrist. He tugged gently, and led him into the sitting-room and onto the couch. Peter's back was slumped over, every bit of energy in him flowing out, he sat down. "Fuck me, Spidey. I don't really know what the fuck you think you're playing at trying to stitch this shit up yourself." He could tell the Wade's patience was lessening. He knew that there was no possible way out of the situation.

  He tried at resistance once more, just for the sake of it, but the energy was simply not there to make a legitimate attempt at diverting the situation. Though their bodies, and general demeanour would say otherwise, Wade and Peter were actually equally as strong. In a hypothetical wrestling match between the two, who would win would actually be left to be seen. But at this moment, the thought of jumping out of his own apartment window to escape Wade's prying eyes was unfathomable, he was simply too tired. If Wade caught him, which he definitely would, Peter would stand no chance against him.

  "Please," Peter's voice was just barely above a hellishly desperate whisper, Wade's head snapped up, his mask surprisingly impassive. "Please just let me do it myself. I'm able to." Wade looked only a little bit shocked, and maybe more than a little bit agitated.

  "I'll be the judge of that." And with that, Peter began to fumble for the small button at the front of his suit. It was the compression device that kept the spandex tight and lithe on his body, the button that he used to find immensely handy and convenient at its ability to make what would be an awful task - peeling spandex off your body every night - as easy as taking off baggy pyjamas, he now hated it with all of every fibre of his being. Thankfully, he was wearing underwear, he might relinquish a little bit of dignity from what was to come. He shed his suit, along with the padding that he so desperately cherished, as quickly as possible, not wanting to prolong the feeling of his suit falling off his body any longer than necessary. He didn't want to have time to change his mind.

  The suit pooled at his feet, he was now half-naked, standing in the middle of his sitting room, in front of Deadpool.

  If Wade even reacted in the slightest, Peter didn't see or hear it, as Wade had gone completely and utterly still. The worst part about the whole situation, was that the large gash going down his left hand side - which was now congealed with dried blood - was not the most horrifying part about Peter's body. His stomach caved in on itself, his ribs as clear as day, collarbones protruding out from the once lively and soft skin. His entire body was a sickly colour, with tufts of light hair all over his stomach, arms and legs. Peter could feel his chest rapidly heaving in breaths of air, Wade was still completely silent and completely statuesque.

  "I knew it, I fucking knew it." Wade's tone was nothing short of absolutely, positively livid. It was a cold, and quiet rage he had only heard from Wade on one occasion, and that was when Peter had been badly beaten to a pulp within the first year of them knowing each other. It made him want to curl up into a ball, never to see the light of day again.

  Deadpool was on his feet before Peter could even think of reacting, his gloved hands outstretched, but not daring to touch. "What have you done? What the fuck have you done to yourself?" Wade said, in a breathless voice, that just couldn't bring itself to understand. It was silent for a few moments more, Peter didn't dare to speak, he didn't trust himself to answer. He didn't know if this was the reaction he expected or not, he was all but expecting Wade to either swan dive out the window, or throw Peter out of it himself.

  "Oh my god, Spidey. Jesus, fuck." His hand finally met Peter's shoulder, gloved fingers transfixed at the grotesque curvature of the all too prominent bones. His attention was then drawn to the gash, and he reached for the long since discarded medical kit, it was obvious that Wade was desperately trying to keep his attention on the task at hand, and nothing else.

  The cleaning of the wound and the subsequent stitching was borderline excruciating, but not a single sound left Peter's lips aside from the odd wince of discomfort. When the gash was stitched up in the most meticulous fashion he had ever seen, Wade stood eye level with him. Well, eye level being Peter's eyes to Wade's shoulders, but nonetheless. 

  "You don't eat, I know you don't. Spide-" Wade pretty much knew everything about him at that point so the shaking hero interjected with, "Peter." Wade stopped, blinking rapidly. He processed the information with a sudden rigidity. He didn’t seem to let the bombshell of incredibly personal  information detract from the situation, though. 

  "You don't eat Peter, and I knew, I fucking knew you were doing it on purpose. I didn't fucking know how to bring it up, which is surprising, isn't it? And I just knew that something like this would happen eventually, and it did and I wish it wasn’t true. But it is. And Jesus H Christ, I don't have a flying fuck as to what I'm supposed to do.." He trailed off. The tangent was surprisingly coherent, what was more surprising was that Wade sounded like he was going to burst into tears.  _'Why isn't jumping out of the window in horror yet?'_

"You're running on empty, baby boy. You can't live like this." They made eye contact, the most severe eye contact that would send the most sane individuals crippling to their knees at the intense stare of a masked Deadpool, "I won't let you."

  "I'm sorry," Peter said, his resolve breaking completely as he felt the tears run freely down his cheeks. Peter wasn't one to cry, he rarely cried, he rarely had it in him to do so. He had cried when Uncle Ben died, and had cried when reading out his dedication to him at the funeral, and that had been the last time. But this breakdown had been a long fucking time coming, and should've happened a long time before then. 

  In a flurry of movement, he pulled off his mask and rubbed his eyes with the the back of his bare arm.  _Attractive._ He went slightly limp as he stumbled forward, and into a pair of arms that silently promised to never let go. "When I imagined seeing this beautiful face of yours, I didn't want it to be this way. It's funny how things are working out today, unclothed and unmasked and neither of us are enjoying." It was a sorry attempt at at a joke, but Peter let out a weak chuckle anyways.

  "And you are Spide- Petey, you're so fucking beautiful. Stop it, stop this." Peter couldn't remember crying this much in his life, but he needed to. It needed to happen. To say that he was relieved that Wade hadn't run for the hills was an understatement, because at least he had this, completely unfiltered with his identity now completely on show. 

  They sat for hours - no literally, hours - until the sun went down and the darkness was spreading across his apartment, he had explained the entire situation to Wade in between choked sobs on the couch; where he had gently placed Peter to get him some clothes. It was awful, but incredible all at the same time to talk to someone who would listen but not judge. There were many, many times when Wade would look annoyed - near furious - at something Peter had said, particularly at the mention of his methods of punishing himself through deprivation, but it was because he fucking  _cared._ A word he had said or thought of at least a hundred times over the course of the evening.

  When Peter had finished ranting, a rant that had been steadily building up over the course of three years, they both sat holding each other. Wade had taken off his mask, which was a step for them both that neither individuals had seen coming.

  "I know I can't cure you or some bullshit like that, Petey. But I promise to help you as much as I possibly can." He put one hand smack bang on his heart, and the other gloved hand on Peter's chest. "I Wade Wilson, solemnly swear under the roof of movie marathons of past, present and future, to help Peter.." He trailed off, looking down at Peter's head in his lap with slight uncertainty, "Parker." 

  "To help Peter Parker get through this shitty time in his life with unwavering support. Amen, Merry Christmas." Peter smiled, the man was something else. Crazy, but so much more than that at the same time. "Now pass the fucking remote, I can't pretend to listen to Ryan Reynolds if the TV isn't on." 

  

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this definitely didn't take me all day to write. What?
> 
> It definitely turned out a good bit longer than I intended it to be, and I really hope everyone likes it. I hope no one thinks that I shoved too much in this, because you have the disorder reveal, name reveal and face reveal all crammed into one. I wasn't really arsed to read too much over this either, so.
> 
> Let me know if you want this to be a series or what not, I think it'd be a cool idea to develop the story further, but only with suggestions of course!


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